Turning the Tide
by realbojangles
Summary: A young man travelling to Skyrim to make his career as a blacksmith runs into a bit more trouble than he'd like. A young half Dunmer with the ability of foresight sits in a corner house, biding her time while wars rage around her. These two are destiny incarnate. Will the Civil War end to the sound of victory drums or the roar of dragons? Ulfric/OC; OC/OC
1. The First Step

**Author's Note:** _Been a while since I've posted on here, but I've been writing this story for a little bit. I figured I'd share. This is the first bit I wanted to publish. I've still go a few more things to write on the next section. We learn the young man's name in the second one, so wait a bit. Anyway, enjoy! Leave a review! Thanks!_

* * *

His skin was the color of snow, the gentlest tinge of gray underneath his wide eyes—wide eyes with irises the color of purple wine. He was often lumped in with the Dunmer, but he was brought up by two Nords—Broni and Ondena Stone-Shaper. Broni was a greatly superstitious man in his short life, having passed away a year ago, and he often insisted his great great grandmother's eyes were red, cursed to be the color of the elf she killed many years ago. Broni told the young man this story many times, often omitting the more graphic parts until he got older. But, despite the bloody past Broni's mother had with the Dunmer (they worshiped Daedra instead of the Divines), the young man's mother and father never faulted the boy for his cursed visage nor did the people of Cyrodiil.

He called Cyrodiil home for almost 30 years. He lived mostly in Bruma, but he moved to Skingrad once he was a man grown. He did this in order to learn the skill of Smithing, something he was quite good at now. He learned from the greatest smith in all of Skingrad (and Cyrodiil for that matter), and before that, Broni taught him how to work a forge and smith iron weapons and tools. Now though, he left Cyrodiil for Skyrim, looking to pass the border with his official paperwork. He was to head to Riften and apprentice with his uncle, Balimund. In his pack, he had letters from Balimund, requesting his presence in Skyrim. Balimund had no children of his own, so Broni might have mentioned his own son before his death.

Pale Pass was always cold, even before he left for Skingrad. Sure, the summery town had spoiled him horribly, but he still felt the chill in his veins, his Nord blood barely keeping him alive. The cold was peaceful for him though. It reminded him of home and snowball fights with his mother. He remembered the way his mother would cook sweet rolls for him and set them out on the table. His father would snatch one or two, but the young man would always eat four or five. He loved sweets. He loved his home.

Home, a small wooden home in Bruma (now only inhabited by his mother), was behind him, buried in the snowy town he ran through as a boy. He briefly wondered what happened to all of his old friends and where they went after he left. However, missing his friends did not last too long. Shouting caught his attention at the border to Skyrim. Within the raging winter storm, the young man saw a few men fighting with Imperial soldiers. Perhaps he could help the soldier and gain passage to a nearby village (hopefully one with a wagon or carriage). He ran forward and aimed a blow at a large hulking man, hoping to penetrate his thick furs. However, at that moment, the colossal Nord's great sword flew back, poised to strike a soldier. The sword's pommel slammed into the young man's head and knocked him out cold. How was he going to explain this?

* * *

Light filtered through his eyelashes as he woke from his slumber. He could hear the soft creak of a carriage taking him somewhere. Hopefully, the Imperials had won and were taking him somewhere warm or somewhere to cure his headache. He had a potion in his bag. Maybe they left his bag with him. He fully opened his eyes, the snow piling up on evergreen trees filling his vision. The young man moved to stretch his arms above his head, only to be stopped by the rope joining his wrists together. He was in bond? Why?

"Hey! You… You're finally awake," a voice called out. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there." The speaker was a young blonde headed Nord, a dull contrast to the dark haired, wine eyed companion.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was _nice_ and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The horse thief turned to the young man and stared intently at him. They held each others eyes for a moment until the horse thief continued.

"You there, you and me...we shouldn't be here. It's the Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers in bind now," the blonde Nord remarked. He wasn't wrong.

"Shut up back there!" Everyone in the cart turned their head towards the driver, scowling. Thankfully, it was quiet for a moment, the gentle lilting of the carriage almost lulling the young man to sleep, but the blonde Nord and horse thief had other plans.

"What's wrong with him?" The horse thief inquired, gesturing towards the older man across from him.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" The young man turned to his bench mate. Ulfric did not _look_ like a High King. He'd heard of the rebellion, but he'd never seen it up close. Ulfric was blonde, but he had lost the luster in the strands, leaving the hair dirty looking. He had a stern face, wide and stretched out like a caricature, his nose thicker and longer than a thumb and twice as ridiculous. Something told the young man he would see Ulfric again. Something told the young man he would not die today.

* * *

Windhelm was in a tizzy this morning. The Jarl was gone, taken by the Empire. Men and women gathered up their goods, positively prepared to pack up and leave should the Empire try to take Windhelm. Couriers ran to and fro, some coming to the hold and some leaving. They carried messages containing worry and words of warning. The people were in a panic, save for the dark elves.

"A drink to Jarl Stormcloak! For getting captured and giving us elves some time to breathe!"

"To Jarl Stormcloak!"

New Gnisis Cornerclub was bright and merry, a stark difference between the wild anarchy outside its walls. Within the "club," a young woman (a dark elf by Nord standards though not by Dunmer standards) sat near the back, knitting a scarf for the young dog snoozing at her feet. She was pretty with unmarred skin the color of frosted lavender. Her hair was a deeper purple than her skin, curls of the coarse hair falling in her face from time to time.

"Ris! Rissa! **ENDRISSA DRES!** Hello?"

The young woman, Endrissa, glanced up at the Dunmer calling her name. He was her best friend, Mevein, and he was her best friend since birth. However, he was a bit older than her by at least 20 years, the lack of hair on his head proving it to those who did not believe. However, his age was arbitrary. Mer lived longer than half-mer (and half-mer lived longer than the humans), so Mevein and Endriss were about the same age… in mer years. Sort of.

"Are you going to join the celebration?"

"No, Ulfric Stormcloak will not die anytime soon," she said, not looking up; "He's going to escape from Helgen."

With that, Mevein slumped, sorrow seeping into his features. The problem with the statement was not her traitorous words but the truth in them. Endrissa had the Sight. While the Sight was useful, the Sight was also fickle. The future changed frequently with free will, but the general prediction was mostly right.

"Don't tell them," Ris said softly. She looked up at Mevein with a small smile, and he nodded understandingly. The Gray Quarter had not been this happy in a while. Endrissa looked to keep the elves happy.

"Of course I won't tell them, Ris… If you have a drink with me."

She paused and looked down at her pup, Zeni, and she sighed. Standing up, she sat her skein of yarn down and rubbed her hands on her dress.

"Well. Lead the way. If I am going to drink, I'm going to drink wine, all right?"

"Fair enough, Ris. Fair enough."


	2. The Block

Hey! Sorry for the late update, but I was messing with school! Here it is, the final bit of Helgen! After this, the story will _drastically_ change from the original story. So, enjoy! Leave a review! Thanks!

* * *

"Ralof of Riverwood!"

The blonde Stormcloak crept forward, sharing a glance with the Imperial who called his name. "Hadvar," he muttered. There must have been something between the two men, but Hadvar didn't respond to Ralof. So, there was tension too.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" In a flash, Lokir, the horse-thief ran for the hills, sprinting for his life. They young Nord boy, who belonged there as much as the horse-thief, knew Lokir was gone the minute the arrow entered his back. He fell lifelessly to the dirt, eyes open and gazing forward blankly.

"Anyone else feel like running?"

But no one was paying attention to the threatening Captain who spoke, despite her polished and regal look. Despite her station and important threats, everyone including Hadvar focused on the young Nord with the wine colored eyes.

"Wait … you there. Step forward. Who … are you?"

The young man stepped forward slowly, looking around at the curious faces. Their eyes rested on his features—pale greyish skin, void like hair, and dark eyes. He fidgeted with the ties around his wrists, the rope starting to irritate the sensitive skin.

"Baldr Stone-Shaper," he replied certainly, looking directly at Hadvar without an inch of fear on his face… He hoped.

"A … Nord?" He asked in what sounded like astonishment. He did not seem to believe Baldr despite the validity to the statement. "You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman. I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

Baldr blinked at his statement, shocked at the mixture of sympathy. Baldr was going to die… But, he had his papers. He wondered why the Imperials had not mentioned that once.

"Captain?" Hadvar asked. "What should we do? He's not on the list." He looked to the Captain, hoping and praying she would simply write it off. Hadvar seemed to root for Baldr, and Baldr was grateful for that. But, it didn't work.

"Forget the list. He goes straight to the block."

Baldr had never felt more rage than he did in that moment. They were going to kill him! They were going to kill him, despite his _legal_ papers. He stared at Hadvar then the Captain incredulously, his mouth agape and brows furrowed. They only stared at him, Hadvar at least trying to look piteous. The bastard had the decency to at least look guilty.

"By your orders, Captain. Follow the Captain, prisoner."

Baldr blanched at that. "My name is Baldr. It is _not_ prisoner. Your guilty conscience would do well to remember that! I have papers that allow me entrance to Skyrim! And you and yours would all have me dead!" He paused, looking at the Stormcloaks and then back at Hadvar. "Maybe the Empire _should_ fall."

His fate was sealed. Hadvar's face hardened. Baldr would receive no more sympathy from the soldier. Good. Balder did not want it. He turned away from Hadvar and stood next to Ralof. The blonde Nord shot a smile at Baldr. Baldr was surprised when he smiled back at Ralof. At least he would die with someone good—his _true_ kin.

Then, General Tullius stepped forward. White tendrils of hair falling a few inches above his furrowed brows, the general stepped towards Ulfric with a steely determination. Tullius's eyes were far too small for his face, a nose rivaling Ulfirc's. A scruffy gray and black beard covered his surprisingly strong jaw. He was just as intimidating as Ulfric. Yet, Baldr noticed a ferocity in Ulfric not present in Tullius. The old general seemed to have lost any will to fight. He was tired, but Ulfric was just beginning. Ulfric would be a martyr.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero! But, a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric growled through his gag, the sound soft but menacing nonetheless. His eyes were slitted and enraged. Baldr almost didn't want the gag removed. He didn't know what would happen if the gag was removed. He'd never heard the Voice aloud. Sure his father used to tell him about the Dragonborn and the dragons of old. Baldr was grateful they were gone.

"You started this war, flung Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace," Tullius continued. Baldr did not buy in to his lie. The Empire couldn't restore peace! They could only win this war through trickery!

There was silence for a moment only broken by a distant rumbling in the air. Hadvar startled at the sound, eyes going wid for a moment. "What was that?" He breathed.

Tullius seemed annoyed at the interruption and shot a furrowed glare at the young soldier. "It's nothing. Carry on."

The female captain stepped forward. "Yes General Tullius!" _What a blowhard_ , Baldr thought. She turned to the priestess of Arkay Baldr hadn't seen before she acknowledged her. "Give them their last right."

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," a red headed Nord shouted from the crowd. Baldr stared at him as he stepped forward. To face his death so bravely… Baldr didn't know if he would be able to face his own death with that bravery.

"… as you wish," the priestess finally conceded. The red headed Nord went to the block, nothing in his expression telling Baldr his emotions save for the budding tears in the young man's eyes. He kneeled down and put his head down, letting off one last quip for the Imperials.

"Come on! I haven't got all morning! My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

And then, with a slow arching motion, the executioner's axe sliced down on the soldier's neck. Baldr cringed, the sight of death forcing him to look away. Ralof caught his eyes, having done the same. He nodded at Baldr, blue eyes searching in Baldr's for a glimmer of hope. Baldr wanted to reach out and take Ralof's hand. Already, the blonde Nord showed Baldr far more kindness than the Imperials he'd grown up with. But, he was bound. So, he simply looked at Ralof and nodded stonily.

"… as fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof breathed, smiling despite the thick air of death now surrounding Helgen.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" Someone screamed, and Baldr searched around for the sound. He scowled. How could they watch this? They were barbarians!

"Next, the smithy from Cyrodiil!"

Baldr went cold. There was another rumble in the air, but Baldr didn't notice. He was going to die… He was going to die. So young. So young.

"There it is again! Did you hear that?"

"I said, _next prisoner_!"

Baldr looked over at Ralof and then over at Ulfric. The Stormcloak leader nodded at him—a silent apology for the mess Ulfric had put the young man in. Everyone was so resigned to his death! _Talos, save me_! He pleaded. _Divines!_ But they did not answer. He was going to die alone.

"To the block prisoner. Nice and easy."

Baldr crept forward, unsure of what happened after this. He wasn't sure of anything anymore, especially not this. He moved towards the block, kneeling in front of it. He saw the severed head of the soldier before him, and he felt his stomach churn at the sight. So, he thought of his family in this time of terror.

The Headsman lifted the axe, and he raised it over his head. Baldr clenched his eyes closed, mirroring his fists whose knuckles were whit as snow. But, in that moment, the roar that had only grumbled before pierced the sky with a screech. The earth shook as something landed on the tower. Baldr opened his eyes to see the headsman flat on his back. He looked up as everyone shouted around him.

"What in Oblivion is that?!"

"Sentries, what do you see?"

"It's in the clouds!"

" _Dragon_!"


End file.
